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Die a Little Longer

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“So demanding, brother,” Loki purrs into Thor's ear, lips brushing the shell, and the sibilants make the proud warrior beneath him jerk and arch. “Always so certain that you will have what you want.”

Thor's arms strain against the whisper-thin spellstrands that bind them, stretch them up and over his head and pin them together near the headboard—all his might, all his strength, constrained by a few strings of green light wrapped around his wrists and ankles and a sigil traced in the air with a fingertip. It leaves the core of him open—exposed—vulnerable—just as Loki wishes it. No matter how his muscles tense, pull, shudder, he cannot break those slender green streaks, nor lift the anchor that holds them down.

“Such a greedy little thing you are. Selfish. Caring only for your own desires.”

Loki runs his fingertips over those shuddering muscles, reveling in every twitch and shiver as he brushes against Thor's many weak spots, skirts around the ones that truly need his touch. Tracing the prominent veins down his thick arms, tickling across his ribs, circling his pectorals (going nowhere near his nipples, no, not yet, Thor has not earned that yet, though he lets out the most  delicious  little whine).

Thor clenches around him, trying to draw him deeper—he's only perhaps half-seated, slipping shallowly out and in with no real rhythm and in no real hurry—and he hisses with pleasure, allows the sound to escape because he knows how it will affect his dear brother. The amount of slick oil, and his own desire, makes it difficult not to slide in all the way (to bottom out, pull back and slam hard enough to bruise, to fuck deep and heavy and unrelenting until Thor screams from it), but Loki holds himself back, because Thor has not earned that yet either.

Loki,” Thor growls through his teeth, as though he could intimidate Loki into granting him release. As though he were issuing some unspoken threat. Loki laughs at that, a short, quiet, mocking little sound, crafted to tease and antagonize in equal measure.

“Now, now,” he coos, wrapping his hands around Thor's hips and rubbing little circles into the sharp bones with his thumbs. “Mustn't be rude, brother. Did our nursemaids never teach you manners?”

“You vile teasing sorcerer, I'll—nnnngh! ” Loki cuts him off with a sharp slap to the thigh. He cares not a whit what Thor will do, not when his golden brother is writhing so at the slightest touch, deep red cock jutting up between them and dripping precome onto his tensed abdominals.

“I suppose I shall have to give you those lessons myself, then,” Loki says, long-suffering, twitching his hips just enough to generate some friction. Thor groans in frustration, the cords of his throat jumping out as he flexes his neck. “You have been terribly spoiled, brother.”

He draws back to look at Thor's face, smiling crooked, a mixture of playful and predatory. His brother's lips are stretched in a snarl, baring gritted teeth, his heavy brows drawn down over eyes bright with indignance and dilated with lust. He shines with sweat, all over, trembles with rage and desire, and oh but he is  beautiful this way. Trapped, helpless, bereft of his power, and despite all this still resisting.

Loki's smile splits into a grin.

“You came here expecting to get exactly what you wanted, without question,” he says, raking his fingernails slowly down Thor's sides. He leaves long, lovely red marks. Thor's angry stare falters for half a moment, into something caught undecided between pleasure and pain. “Just as you always do. No one ever says 'no' to handsome, golden, blue-eyed Thor—it simply is not done, is it? Of course not. You never had the need to learn patience, not with everyone in earshot leaping to satisfy your every petty whim.”

His voice stays level, controlled, smooth and cutting as a at the same time, but he digs his nails in harder, harder, presses crescent-shaped imprints into the flesh of Thor's hips.

“Never learned to say please, did you, little prince,” he hisses, and thrusts a bit deeper. Just a bit. Not deep enough to hit that hot bundle of nerves that makes Thor's eyes roll up and makes his mind go white with ecstacy. He avoids it on purpose. Just as he avoids Thor's dark, tight nipples, avoids his flushed lips, the dip of his throat, his pulsing cock. All the places that scream out for touch, Loki ignores utterly.

Which, of course, does not mean he will allow Thor the luxury of doing the same. That would defeat the whole point of this exercise.

Instead, he feathers his fingertips just beside those sensitive spots as he speaks, draws Thor's attention to them. Brushes a thumb along the outside of a pebbled areola. Tugs at the beard on his chin. Nips at his collarbones, licks at their points. Strokes the join of his hip with one finger.

Watches as Thor's glare begins to fray around the edges.

“Do you know what you are, Thor?” Loki murmurs, leaning in close. He hovers there, his lips just beyond Thor's reach. “Do you know what you are, little prince? Little wants-to-be-king, playing with his wooden soldiers? A coddled...pampered...brat.”

He punctuates the last word with another hard slap, and he smiles like a knife at the cry it wrings from his brother's throat.

“Did you really think I would bow to you, little prince?” he says. He runs a fingertip up underneath Thor's chin. Thor attempts to resume his glaring, but it ends up closer to petulant than intimidating. “Oh, don't pout so, it is quite unbecoming for a future king.”

“I swear to you, Trickster, if you do not still your tongue and fuck me—

“Is that what you want?” Loki interrupts, eyes wide and glinting with malicious innocence. “Is that what you want, little prince? You want to be fucked?”

He stills his shallow thrusts, and slo-o-owly drags himself out, greedily drinking in Thor's deprived gasps and whimpers, until only the head of his cock remains within his brother's tightness. Thor writhes, clamps down around him with a sound perilously close to a sob, and Loki swallows his own gasp, because he must remain in control of himself.

“Is that what you want?” he asks again, pushing slo-o-owly back in, the oil slicking his passage, he has to fight to keep from slamming home, not yet, not yet. “You want to be taken? You want me to fuck you?”

He seats himself fully in that tight heat, feels it pull at him, Thor's whines ratcheting up into tense cries, he is sweating desperation, Loki can smell it rolling off of him. “Yes, Norns curse you, yes—

“You want to be split open, speared on my cock, claimed and conquered like a woman?” Loki says sweetly, reaching up and rolling Thor's nipples between his fingers, the first touch he has granted them since this began.

Aah, damn your eyes, Loki—Loki—

His name melts into a keening whine in Thor's mouth, and Loki reminds himself to breathe—Thor is cracking, breaking, just a few more pushes and he will be shattering.

“Say it,” Loki hisses, seizing Thor's jaw and forcing him into eye contact. “I want to hear you say it, little prince. Little would-be king. Say you want me to fuck you.”

Loki's fingers twist, and Thor's eyes roll up into his head. “W-aannh want you to f-fuck me—”

“As you wish,” says Loki, baring his teeth in a wicked grin.

He lets go of Thor's jaw and sketches a complicated gesture in the air. Thor's head snaps up, his eyes going very wide.


The expression on his face as he watches the thin green spellstrand wrap and cinch tight around the base of his cock is more than worth the effort of all Loki's self-control.

And before Thor can say anything at all, Loki claws his fingers on Thor's chest and snaps his hips, a quick whipcrack of his spine driving his cock deep. His eyes squeeze shut, and he smothers a loud groan, while Thor arches his back and cries out helplessly.

Loki has denied himself as much as he has Thor, and that coiled spring of need he has kept carefully held back now fuels the rough, feral way he ruts into his brother—a deep, steady pounding, one he knows will leave bruises on the both of them when he is done, the satisfying smack of his skin against Thor's ringing through the bedchamber. He's breathing hard through his teeth, can't stop himself from growling and snarling at every overstimulated sound Thor makes; his fingers close vicelike around Thor's heaving ribcage, their nails black and sharp, cutting into the skin, blood oozing out around them and dripping bright red over trembling muscles, and Thor is completely at his mercy, his nonexistent mercy—

He settles into a punishing rhythm, strikes down like a serpent to get Thor's flesh between his teeth, tastes sweat and blood as he hammers himself into his brother. Sparks catch deep in his belly, flare into bright blinding flame, as he marks Thor, claims him, sullies him. Precious bright golden firstborn made filthy made an object to be used made a hole to be fucked, slut whore toy for my pleasure want me beg me beg me to breed you to fill you with my seed.

And Thor squirms and bucks so gorgeously beneath him, any remnants of his indignation shredded and ripped away to reveal nothing beneath but raw aching desire, painted in broad strokes across his contorted face. Reduced to a writhing beast, something less than a man, proud arrogant warrior brought low by his own brother's cock buried in him.

Loki fucks him harder. The flame inside him is collapsing in on itself—denser, sharper, hotter with each thrust, drawing his stones up tight, won't come yet, won't come yet, will not come yet

—but then Thor screams, desperation frustration wrath lust please, and Loki stops breathing entirely as the hot sharp flame bursts into searing starlight, white and blinding behind his eyes. It burns through him, scorches every inch of him, and with a choked cry he convulses and spends himself inside Thor's body.

Gasping, dizzy, he shudders through his climax while Thor wrings him dry, his inner walls pulling and squeezing around Loki's cock as the white blindness runs its course. Eventually the sensation becomes uncomfortable, and Loki slips out, breathing hard. The deprived sob Thor lets out somehow makes it through the ringing in Loki's ears. He can't help but laugh.

“You said you wanted me to fuck you, little prince,” he teases, familiar post-coital languor seeping through his muscles. He rolls off of Thor, settles himself on his side to admire the arched, tight-muscled body he has just thoroughly used. “You said nothing of coming.”

Thor turns his head, and oh, his eyes are so dark, unfocused, half-lidded, sweat trickling down into his beard.

“Loki, please,” he rasps. “Please, brother, I can't...”

Loki arranges his expression into idle thoughtfulness, playing at consideration. “Well, you have said please,” he muses, “so I suppose that is a point in your favor.” He runs a hand over the plane of Thor's chest, toys with a nipple and watches his brother moan and strain against his bonds. “Still. You expect far too much of those around you. What reason would I have to grant you what you want now?”

“But you...” The look Thor gives him is almost childish, a sort of naked, pleading horror—you wouldn't leave me like this, would you? Loki finds it endearing in spite of himself.

He props his chin on one hand, uses the other to tease the head of Thor's cock. Thor bucks his hips up into Loki's hand with a broken cry.

“What will you do for the chance to come?” Loki asks, tickling his fingers over the throbbing vein on the underside.

Anything,” Thor sobs, “anything, just please, please, I need—”

“Anything?” Loki smiles again, scheming, clever, strokes from base to tip. “Anything at all?”

Yes! Brother, please, aah—”

Loki strokes him for a bit, slow and lazy, revels in the way Thor's body rises up at his command like a puppet on strings. All this strength, these toned muscles and powerful limbs, rendered to nothing by a touch. Even if they call Loki weak where they think he cannot hear them—what does it matter? He knows the truth. More importantly, Thor knows the truth.

Loki stills his hand, but his grip remains firm, his thumb pressed to the V at the base of the head.

“Beg me,” he says.

Thor takes a shuddering breath. “Loki, please,” he manages, his voice deliciously weak. “Please let me come. Please.”

“Not good enough,” says Loki brightly. “Try again.”

Thor inhales to speak again. Loki squeezes hard, twists a bit, and Thor's inchoate attempt at words breaks into animal groans. Each time Thor tries to speak, Loki tightens his grip for half a moment, pleased with the desperate sounds the action draws from his brother.

“My apologies, dear brother, but I cannot understand a thing you are saying,” he says, and Thor snarls at him. He laughs. “Perhaps I should stop?”

He withdraws his hand, slow, leaves a fingertip resting on the slit, soaking with precome. Thor's mouth drops open in a moan loud enough to echo, his eyes rolling up until only the whites show, the whole broad stretch of his body tense and trembling and jerking, and he starts to babble.

“Loki please please let me come I beg of you I'll do anything you wish anything at all my brother just please please please need to come I need to come—

Loki rubs the slit, steady lazy back-and-forth, just the pad of his finger, listening to Thor cry out brokenly. “Mm, much better,” he purrs. “Though I think you can do better still...”


“No,” Loki snaps. Thor startles at the sudden change of tone, gasps a shaky breath. “Not 'Loki'. If you want to come, then you will call me Master.”

And it seems Thor is beyond caring anything for his own pride—debased, debauched, deprived—dragged into the mud, still leaking Loki's seed from his fluttering hole—he corrects his pleading cries in an instant, humiliates himself before Loki without a single thought of doing otherwise. “M-Master”—and he stammers, just a bit, trips over the unfamiliar word, beautiful to see him hesitant and unsure for once—“Master, please—please let me come, please, need to—ah, please, Master—”

And oh, but it is sweet, watching Thor reduced to this. Shameless writhing need—begging and pleading for the privilege of reaching climax. The proud crown prince, brought down to whore.

Loki begins stroking him again, making his words unravel into strings of incoherent vowels. His head tosses back and forth, blond hair drenched with sweat, eyes tight shut; had Loki actually tied him to the headboard, it would have long since splintered under the rough treatment. As it stands, Loki's anchors hold Thor fast.

“Very well, then,” Loki sighs finally, and snaps his fingers. The green string around Thor's cock dissolves into nothing. “Come.”

Thor goes rigid, silent, every muscle held tense, his cock pulsing sweltering hot in Loki's grip, his head thrown back, his mouth and eyes wide. He freezes there for a handful of endless seconds, a trembling statue, dripping sweat, blood drying dark on his sides and chest where Loki marked him.

Then he lets out a deafening roar, seizing as his climax crashes into him like a battering ram—his hips piston up into Loki's hand, never touching the bed all the while he spills his seed, whitish ropes painting his stomach and chest. Some of it shoots far enough to strike the wall above the headboard.

What a waste, Loki thinks with a smirk. That could be going towards fathering heirs.

Thor collapses, heaving great heavy breaths like a winded bull, his muscles twitching and shivering from use. Loki waves an idle hand, and Thor's bonds vanish in wisps of green smoke. Groaning, Thor stretches his limbs, lets them drop limply to the bed. He swallows, blinks, gasps again.

Loki can't help the smug look on his face as he conjures a flagon of water from the air and brings it to Thor's dry lips. Thor's hands come up to grab it, and he gulps it down so quickly Loki fears he might drown.

“Not too much for you, was it?” Loki asks.

Thor's head drops back onto the pillows, and he lets go of the cup; Loki vanishes it back whence it came. “Never,” Thor rasps, a mindless grin plastered across his face. Loki rolls his eyes.

He turns to leave, but before he can even reach the edge of the bed, Thor has thrown his tree-branch arms around Loki's thin body and pulled him close, pinning Loki's own arms to his sides. He kisses the curve of Loki's shoulder; Loki squirms, trying to get away. “Let me go. You're disgusting.”

“No.” Thor's voice is a contented rumble, vibrating in Loki's skin as Thor nuzzles against him. “My beloved brother.”

“Barbarian,” Loki says irritably. “You're covered in seed and sweat, you are absolutely filthy. And you are going to get it all over me.”

He feels Thor grinning against his shoulder. “You complain too much.”

Loki huffs, and waves his hand again; the filth disappears, though Loki will not feel clean again until he has properly bathed. Which will not be happening soon, if Thor's behavior is anything to judge by.

“Come here, brother,” Thor mumbles, tugging Loki closer until he settles into the curve of his brother's body. “Mmm. There now. Skittish as a cat, my love.”

“I am not skittish,” Loki retorts. He dislikes how soppy Thor always is after sex, crooning ridiculous endearments like a besotted maiden. “The sheets will need changing.”

“They can wait. You are staying right here, little kitten.”

Loki scowls. “Oh, be silent, you great oaf.”

But Thor's breathing has already slowed; he snores softly, contentedly, into the crook of Loki's neck. Loki sighs, resigning himself to the fact that he will have to wait for Thor to wake before he can do anything.

Eventually, the warmth of Thor's body against his lulls him to sleep.